


amid the falling snow

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, M/M, Modern Royalty, Romance, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which a snowstorm and a broken-down elevator are the beginnings of a fairytale.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 110
Kudos: 547





	amid the falling snow

Snow falls outside the long, vertical windows draped in golden curtains, the soft lights of the lanterns outside casting a strangely spherical glow, like floating snowglobes. Powder is building quickly on the corners of the window frame and Bilbo watches a few shadows hurrying along the sidewalk outside, desperate for what shelter they are trying to make it to.  
  
A gentle puff of his warm breath fogs up the glass and he turns away, lamenting the sights he could be seeing right now.  
  
The Swiss Alps are looming above them, the blizzard arching over their peaks and falling to cover this gorgeous city below. It’s an unexpected storm, the weather having promised clear skies for skiing, and most of the guests here in this incredibly fancy hotel are bundled up in its lounges and restaurants or in their rooms.  
  
Gandalf is out there somewhere, doing who knows what, talking to who knows who. Bilbo is mildly concerned about him, before he remembers that Gandalf would scold him for being so. He wanders into the lobby, a gloriously huge room with a massive crystal chandelier hanging above, casting warm glows over the red and gold and mahogany furniture. There is a hearth nearly as tall as he is in the corner of the room, adorned with massive red deer antlers, and he smiles to see some children sitting in front of it, warming their chilled toes.  
  
He normally works in the London office, coordinating events for Gandalf, writing his novel in any down time he might be graced with. Sometimes Gandalf does invite him out to the events or to meet clients, muttering about Bilbo needing to see more of the world and not just the pages of his journal, and, well… Bilbo tends to agree.  
  
It helps that he doesn’t have to pay for anything.  
  
Cream marble with delicate white striping is below his feet, covered here and there with thick, fur rugs and Bilbo looks around at the splendor of it all. It’s breathtakingly beautiful here, just in this hotel, and he marvels at it. He had spent yesterday out on the slopes with Gandalf, grumbling about how his seventy-something year old bones were far more agile than his own thirty-something year old bones. He’s achy today and would have liked to do some shopping before dinner but if he’s confined to such luxury, he supposes he can’t complain.  
  
They were supposed to meet with clients this evening, together, but a mishap led to Gandalf leaving first, with the plan to meet him and their clients later. The snowstorm was an unexpected surprise, but Bilbo can’t deny that it’s a pleasant one. He can think of nothing better than ordering a very fine bottle of champagne and sitting in his decadently huge soaker tub in his room that overlooks the sweet, cozy Swiss town below.  
  
Perhaps he won’t be able to see much tonight but he’ll still have that champagne.  
  
Bilbo approaches the concierge and orders the bottle, along with a hot fudge brownie sundae, because that sounds particularly delightful. He’ll figure dinner out later. She promises it will be sent to his room shortly and he makes his way to the hallway and the elevators.  
  
Even the elevators are surrounded with golden curtains, a plush red carpet beneath his feet and he presses the button to go up. He pulls out his phone as he waits and frowns at no text from Gandalf yet, some worry in his gut.  
  
He’s vaguely aware of other guests entering the hallway and quite a lot of mumbling in a familiar language, but one he can’t place at the moment. The doors chime open and he steps inside, huddling into the corner as a few other guests enter. They’re all tall and bald and dressed in black and he glances up to frown at them and sees that two are frowning back at him, as if just noticing him.  
  
“We should get into another lift,” one of them mumbles.  
  
Bilbo’s a bit insulted that they begin to pile back out of the elevator, wondering what on earth sort of threat he poses to these particular hulking gentlemen, when another one catches his eye.  
  
He’s standing between two men, even taller than they are, with black hair gently slicked back, a dusting of grey along his temples and in his thick beard. His eyes are very, very blue and he glances over his shoulder to look at Bilbo.  
  
There’s some sort of recognition in his eyes, something that makes Bilbo’s stomach loop, but he’s soon being ushered out by the other men. Bilbo can only assume they’re bodyguards of some sort, but the blue-eyed fellow stops and turns around as they get off of the elevator.  
  
“Are you with Mister Grey?” he asks in a deep, toe-curling type of voice, and Bilbo gapes at him.  
  
“O-Oh, erm, yes… do I know you?”  
  
The man steps back into the elevator and one of the men in the formal black suits holds the door open with a quick, guttural murmur of something that sounds not particularly polite.  
  
And, quite suddenly, there is a sound like a large thud throughout the entire hotel and an audible, low _woosh_ and the elevator and the hall outside of it are bathed in black.  
  
The doors close - Bilbo is fairly certain they slam closed, as it is painfully loud, or perhaps it only seems that way because of the dark - and there are curses and shouts outside of it.  
  
“Power must be out,” Bilbo mutters, not sure who is in the elevator with him until he turns on his phone’s flashlight.  
  
_“Umlhakh!”_ someone is hollering from outside the doors.  
  
The blue-eyed man is there and mumbles something, beginning to try and pry the elevator doors open, but before he can the power flickers back on and the elevator begins to move upward.  
  
“Shit,” the man mutters and moves to press the large red _stop_ button. He stumbles when the elevator abruptly stops moving by itself before he can and they are bathed in darkness again, the power giving out once more.  
  
Men are still shouting somewhere below them and Bilbo’s heart is racing uncomfortably, his palms slick with sweat. His phone is shaking in his hand as he lifts it up to light up the elevator. The man is frowning and squints at the bright light as he looks suspiciously at Bilbo. He’s gone rather pale, Bilbo notices, and thinks he must be some sort of politician not often separated from his guards.  
  
“The blizzard,” Bilbo says with a sigh. “All hotels have generators. We’ll be moving in no time. Though I have no service here right now.” The man is eyeing Bilbo strangely as he shakes his phone and he coughs a little. “Feels rather like being in a movie, doesn’t it?”  
  
The man is quiet for a while before he huffs and straightens out his blue tie. “That can be a good or bad thing, depending on the type of movie.”  
  
“Hmm, yes, you’re right,” Bilbo muses. “I suppose it’s been in every genre, half of them with horrible endings.” He smiles a little, despite his worry. “I prefer the ones that end with swift rescues.”  
  
“As do I,” the man says and squints again when the lights turn back on overhead. He sighs in relief. “Seems that’s what we’ll be getting.” He presses the lobby floor, and while the button lights up, the elevator doesn’t move.  
  
They stare in silence at the buttons for a while before glancing at each other and offering awkward smiles. Bilbo jumps up and down but the elevator merely moves with him, rather than kickstarting into working, and he groans loudly.  
  
“I had a hot fudge brownie sundae being made for me,” he laments.  
  
In a small glass box underneath the buttons, a red phone begins ringing loudly, nearly unbearable in the otherwise quiet elevator and the other man lunges for it. Bilbo wonders if he’s frightened; frightened of the potential dark returning, of being trapped for hours, or of Bilbo. He must be a politician or a celebrity of some sort and Bilbo thinks that he’s lucky, really, ending up with someone like him.  
  
Bilbo doesn’t know many celebrities or politicians and is far less likely to harass them than anyone else. He’s the one often hiding from his family, after all, not the other way around.  
  
The man answers the phone and is quiet as he listens to someone with a deep voice on the other end. He scoffs after a while. “How long?” He listens again and sighs. “The Swiss aren’t trying to murder me.”  
  
Bilbo raises his eyebrows at that, glancing at the man’s rather expansive back.  
  
He scoffs again. “I’m not going to _frisk_ him,” he hisses, curling up in the corner more, as if this will hide his conversation from Bilbo.  
  
Bilbo can’t help but laugh at that. “By all means, frisk me, if you’d like.”  
  
As the man slowly turns to gape at him, Bilbo feels white hot embarrassment flood his veins, his heart forgetting a beat or two, and gapes back at the man as his cheeks flush. “I- I mean, well, if it’d… I’m not… not an invitation, merely trying to, erm… lighten the mood,” he steadily begins to trail off as he speaks, pulling at his collar.  
  
When had it gotten so warm in here?  
  
“Dwalin,” the other man mumbles warningly to the person on the other line. “He’s harmless.”  
  
“Oh good,” Bilbo says, vaguely insulted without any idea why he is. “Are you some sort of celebrity then?”  
  
_Don’t answer that,_ is clearly heard on the other end of the phone, and the man rolls his eyes longsufferingly, as if he has dealt with the other man’s ways for a long time and that softens Bilbo’s heart. A little, at least.  
  
“Have they figured it out yet?” the man asks. “Good. I’m sure Mister…?” He looks at Bilbo inquiringly.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo answers flatly, having a feeling he’s going to have an unexpectedly intimate background check run on him.  
  
The man grimaces apologetically. “Mister Bilbo Baggins and I can wait a few moments. You know that’s not what the situation is, Dwalin. He works with Doctor Grey. That _doesn’t_ make it worse. I’ve been wanting to speak with Grey for a while now.”  
  
He’s quiet again, only grunting in agreement now and then, before he mumbles an unfamiliar word and hangs up the phone with a heavy sigh. He looks at Bilbo, shaking his head. “My head of security tends to think anyone he sees is a potential threat to my personal safety, no matter where I am.”  
  
“It’s a good thing I haven’t got any clue who you are,” Bilbo says with a teasing smile, but if anything, it makes the man look more uncomfortable. “How do you know Gandalf, exactly?”  
  
“Ah,” the man says, clearing his throat, “he’s done some work for my family. I saw you together in the lobby this morning but I had a meeting to attend and wasn’t able to approach him. I was simply going to ask you to pass on a greeting and ask him to get in contact with me.” He huffs as he looks around the elevator. “Didn’t quite go as planned.”  
  
“At least you aren’t stuck outside.”  
  
The man raises his eyebrows consideringly, then nods in agreement. “Dwalin may have actually perished if we were stuck in whiteout conditions.”  
  
They chuckle but as Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, the elevator phone rings again and the man answers. He listens for a while, tapping his foot on the ground, and nods.  
  
“How long?” he asks again with a frown. “An hour is not a long time when there is a blizzard outside, Fundinson. Agreed. Call me with any news.” He hangs up the phone and looks at Bilbo with a wan smile. “They have a tech on the way. He’ll be here in an hour.” He takes a deep breath and seems to be gearing himself up for something before he finally murmurs, “My name is Thorin.”  
  
“Thorin,” Bilbo repeats, a wash of calm settling over his shoulders. It doesn’t feel quite so lonely and uncomfortable being stuck in an elevator with a mysterious man now that he knows his name. “It’s good to meet you, Thorin, though I’m sure we’d both prefer different circumstances.”  
  
Thorin is eyeing Bilbo strangely again, but it comes and goes as quickly as last time. “My day was nearly done,” he says. “Is Grey in the hotel?”  
  
“No, he’s out in this,” Bilbo sighs. “I haven’t heard from him yet. He’d tell me not to worry, but…”  
  
“If only he knew you were stuck in an elevator,” Thorin says dryly. “Grey is known for taking care of himself.”  
  
“You _do_ know him,” Bilbo laughs. “What sort of work has he done for your family?”  
  
“It depends on who you ask,” Thorin says enigmatically. Seeing the confusion on Bilbo’s face, he chuckles. “He’s curated museums in our name and helped organize events, parties and… meetings. He worked with my grandfather more than he’s worked with me for… many reasons.”  
  
Bilbo smiles. “Trustworthiness being one of them, I imagine. He does so enjoy his air of mystery.”  
  
Thorin nods in reluctant agreement. “It doesn’t sit well with me when I know someone isn’t telling the complete truth.”  
  
“Half-truths played very loosely, that must be his motto,” Bilbo says huffily. “That’s how he conned me into working with him. A grand adventure, he promised, and it certainly has been one, and only half of it in a good way.”  
  
“Do you travel with him often?”  
  
“About half the year, which is often enough. Otherwise I run his London office,” Bilbo says with a smile. “Erebor. That’s the accent.”  
  
Thorin pauses in straightening out his tie once again, glancing up at Bilbo, and clears his throat. “Yes,” he says. “Have you been to the country?”  
  
“Unfortunately not. I’ve always wanted to go! Its mountains seem like they would give the Swiss Alps a run for their money.”  
  
“They would,” Thorin says, with some fondness. “A beautiful place. Perhaps after I’ve spoken with Grey, he may take you there. I have work for him.”  
  
“That would be quite nice. As long as it’s not during another winter blizzard anyway.”  
  
Thorin leans back against the wall and peers at Bilbo. He opens his mouth, but the elevator phone rings again, and he answers it curtly. “That’s not necessary,” he says with a firmness that makes Bilbo wonder at his position, as it speaks of authority. “Very well.”  
  
He glances up at the corner of the elevator and Bilbo follows his gaze, seeing a round camera there. Thorin hangs up the phone and looks at Bilbo with a frown. “I’m sorry for this.”  
  
Bilbo is highly aware of the eyes they must have watching them now and leans back against the opposite wall from Thorin with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m starting to believe you must be a very important figure,” he says and points at Thorin. “It’s opera, isn’t it?”  
  
Thorin blinks before he chuckles, his shoulders relaxing. “How did you know?”  
  
“The insurance they must have taken out on your voice alone…”  
  
“Are you saying I have a nice voice?”  
  
Bilbo coughs a little, his cheeks warm, and shrugs. “Nice enough for opera anyway,” he says and smiles as Thorin’s eyes crinkle at the corners.  
  
“Ereborean opera is quite unlike any other, you know.”  
  
“Oh? In what way?”  
  
“The stories that are told are mostly true, from Erebor’s… colorful past,” Thorin says. “Which makes their dramatic flair all the more impressive.”  
  
Bilbo vaguely remembers his history lessons. There have been many revolutions and rebellions in Erebor, a very old country, its past filled with wars and conflicts. They’ve found peace in the last few hundred years, but from what Bilbo remembers, it was a very hard won peace. It’s a highly respected country these days, for overcoming what it did and for its progressiveness and all around philanthropy.  
  
“It would be very impressive to see one day,” Bilbo says with a smile. “I’ve seen far more of the world than I thought I ever would have. Far more of just Europe, even.”  
  
“What’s been your favorite destination so far?”  
  
There’s something to Thorin’s tone, Bilbo notices, and as he looks at him, he sees there is a simple, boyish interest in his eyes. It makes Bilbo’s heart hurt, because he’s seen those eyes, and knows they speak of someone who has led a sheltered life, someone who might live through someone else’s stories.  
  
He sees it on all of his cousins’ faces when he tells them of his travels, but knows that they will never leave Hobbiton themselves, and is suddenly quite grateful that Gandalf whisked him away.  
  
“Barcelona, I think,” Bilbo says. “The culture, the food, the architecture, the sea, the diving… there’s nothing quite like it.”  
  
Thorin smiles as he gazes at Bilbo, something soft about him, something nearly vulnerable, and Bilbo has a strange inkling.  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“I don’t get to sightsee often,” Thorin says carefully, “but I do like visiting Lisbon when I can. For many of the same reasons you enjoy Barcelona. The Portuguese people are by far the most kind and welcoming I have met.”  
  
“Something you’re not likely to find if you ever visit London,” Bilbo says blandly, but with another smile. “As much as I do love a warmer climate, the Alps have been lovely as well. I would have been enjoying a nice bath right now with a very fine glass of champagne.”  
  
“And a hot fudge sundae.”  
  
Bilbo laughs. “That, too,” he says. “If you don’t mind…” He shifts and sits down on the ground with a hearty sigh, wrapping his arms around his legs. “If it’s to be an hour.”  
  
Thorin seems to consider this for a while before he too sits down, loosening his tie and pointing at the phone just a few seconds before it rings. Bilbo snickers as Thorin answers shortly and has a conversation in Khuzdul, Bilbo believes it is. When he hangs up, he looks at Bilbo very sternly.  
  
“We are to maintain a four foot distance.”  
  
Bilbo laughs heartily. “No, it isn’t opera, is it?” he says, shaking his head. “You must be the Prime Minister. Or a very famous actor.”  
  
Thorin smiles, a sight Bilbo would like to see over and over again, but he’ll keep that to himself. “Possibly,” Thorin says. “Maybe I’ll tell you when we get out of here.”  
  
“I’d look you up if I could,” Bilbo says as he pats his pocket. “But I suppose you’ll have to keep up the air of mystery for now.”  
  
“Not something I’m used to, honestly,” Thorin says as he crosses his arms over his chest, his black suit tight over his muscles, which is really an unfair look on him.  
  
Bilbo supposes he could be trapped on an elevator with someone far less interesting - or _Gandalf,_ heaven forbid - and doesn’t feel as starstruck as he is sure he should be. They are two people stuck in an unfortunate situation but someone who typically has bodyguards with them is inevitably an interesting person, for good or for worse.  
  
It helps that Thorin is a very fine person to look at, though that does nothing but make Bilbo self conscious, despite his relatively formal getup, meant for dinner with Gandalf’s clients. He is highly aware he is unlike Thorin in many different ways and yet he is proving himself to be an easy person to speak with. Perhaps it’s even an escape for him, locked away from his overbearing bodyguards, able to loosen his tie.  
  
“Are you here purely for business?” he asks curiously, not expecting any real answers.  
  
“I took one day for a small holiday, but otherwise, yes,” Thorin says. “I went skiing yesterday with my family.”  
  
Bilbo’s heart drifts to lie somewhere with his stomach. Of course Thorin would have a family, why wouldn’t he? He’s a very handsome man in his forties and just because he is being protected doesn’t mean he’s never had the chance to grow his own family.  
  
“That’s wonderful. Are they waiting here for you somewhere?”  
  
Thorin makes some sort of disgruntled noise. “She and the boys never stay in the same hotel as me,” he mutters. “She prefers to be as far away from business as she can when on holiday. A logistical nightmare for my team, but they can’t say no to her.”  
  
Bilbo thinks that sounds highly dysfunctional and coughs. “Oh, erm, well, I’m sorry you aren’t able to at least share a room with your children.”  
  
Thorin looks at Bilbo and raises his eyebrows before a small, pink flush gathers over his nose. “She isn’t my… she’s my sister,” he blurts, in a rush. “The boys are my nephews.”  
  
“Oh!” Bilbo says as he sits up straighter. “I thought you were…” He clears his throat. “Erm… are you?”  
  
“Married?” Thorin asks and looks a bit green around the gills. “No. As much as my family might like to see it. My position makes it difficult to meet anyone worthwhile.”  
  
Bilbo has another inkling and looks at the cuffs on Thorin’s sleeves, a design of a crown with seven stars above it. His suit has a small pin on its lapel, the Ereborean flag.  
  
He has a feeling Thorin is certainly related to politics in Erebor and wonders if he has genuinely stumbled into the Prime Minister of Erebor, but that doesn’t seem quite right either. Surely Gandalf would have known if the Prime Minister was visiting the same hotel they were. Perhaps Thorin is someone whose movements are not… well advertised.  
  
“That must be difficult,” Bilbo says as he fiddles with his glasses. “Here I am avoiding meeting anyone worthwhile while you actually can’t! I think Gandalf tries to set me up with half of his clients, despite the fact that most are either old or come from old money and act like it.”  
  
Thorin smiles. “What would it take to impress you?”  
  
Bilbo’s stomach gives another whirl, not entirely unpleasant, and he gapes at Thorin for a while before he laughs. “Goodness, that’s quite a question,” he says and smiles as Thorin merely raises a curious eyebrow. “Someone that offers stability is far more impressive than someone who offers a whirlwind romance that’s over before it begins. You would think that it would be easier to find the older I get, but that’s not been my experience. I would be far more impressed with an offer to get ice cream than an offer to dine in a five star restaurant.”  
  
“It sounds like Grey’s clientele aren’t the right sort of people for that,” Thorin says, something self-deprecating in his tone.  
  
“Not a single invitation out for ice cream, that’s for sure.”  
  
Thorin’s eyes are achingly soft as he smiles at Bilbo and it hurts, an acute pain in his chest, for this man he has never met or known. There’s something sad about him, something that says he has been defeated by life in more than just the dating world, and Bilbo feels the absurd desire to pat him on the back.  
  
He refrains, keeping his hands to himself, and takes the time out to take in Thorin’s features. He’s got a stern, thick brow, distinctly Ereborean, a strong, bearded jaw and sharp nose. Regal features indeed and Bilbo’s stomach flutters as his inkling begins to form into a question.  
  
Are you part of the royal family?  
  
But he won’t ask. It might end the conversation, it might close Thorin off to him, and he doesn’t want that. He’d quite like to keep speaking with Thorin, even if an hour is all he gets.  
  
“Are you leaving tomorrow then?”  
  
Thorin nods. “Bright and early. But at least I’ll be able to see the sunrise.”  
  
“An incredible sight here,” Bilbo sighs. “My bathtub looks east, though I’m rather hard pressed to get up that early while I’m on holiday.”  
  
“You should try. Get breakfast and that bottle of champagne and enjoy the view. How often are you in the Swiss Alps?”  
  
Bilbo chuckles. “Not very,” he says. “That does sound quite nice, doesn’t it?”  
  
They gaze at each other for a while before their eyes avert and the moment is rather ruined anyway by the shrill ringing of the elevator phone. Thorin looks annoyed by the interruption and answers even more curtly than he has so far.  
  
He listens, saying nothing, but steadily begins to look more resigned with each word the other person on the other end is saying. “Understood,” he says shortly and hangs up, though it sounds like the man on the other end was still speaking.  
  
Thorin looks at Bilbo then, his gaze intense, enough so to make Bilbo’s stomach loop and for him to feel as if he has made a mistake.  
  
“Would you allow me to treat you to dinner and ice cream tonight?”  
  
Or… perhaps not a mistake at all.  
  
He opens his mouth in surprise, gaping at Thorin, and the phone rings again, accusingly this time. Thorin lifts it and hangs it back up and looks at Bilbo with a polite expectancy.  
  
“It, erm… seems like they don’t think that’s a particularly good idea…” he says slowly.  
  
Thorin shrugs. “It’s probably not,” he says and smiles warmly. “But I happen to be my own person with no plans other than a nice meal tonight. I’d be happy if you joined me.”  
  
They both glance at the phone, but it doesn’t ring, which seems to radiate strong disapproval.  
  
Bilbo grins as he looks at Thorin and nods. “Once I’ve found out that Gandalf is alright, I’d be glad to have dinner with you. And… and ice cream,” he says, his heart skipping quite a few beats.  
  
Ice cream had meant a date not all that long ago and he has a hard time convincing himself Thorin doesn’t mean it that way. He must. And Bilbo really needs to stop convincing himself that people never have good intentions towards him, that there are kind people in this world that aren’t expecting anything more out of him than he’s willing to give.  
  
That some people may actually want to have ice cream with him because it’s _him_ and not his money, not his position, not his affiliation with the great Doctor Grey.  
  
“Good,” Thorin says with a small, hopeful smile, as if he might have had trouble accepting the same things in his life.  
  
They don’t say anything for a while and Bilbo feels as if he’s in secondary all over again. It’s a bit silly, he supposes, but it reminds him of more innocent times, when butterflies in your stomach didn’t have more serious implications.  
  
“Were you raised in London?” Thorin asks after some time, looking nothing but curious.  
  
“Outside of it, in Hobbiton. A little village most people aren’t familiar with and the residents prefer for it to stay that way,” Bilbo says with a chuckle. “Though that makes it very hard to leave the older you get. I was one of the few that went to university.”  
  
“What was your study?”  
  
“Higher education, though I’ve done nothing with it, really,” Bilbo says dryly. “Gandalf approached me the week after my graduation with this job and somehow convinced me to take it, despite no qualifications. He’s very persuasive. But when the day comes that I decide I can’t do this anymore, I’ll teach.”  
  
“Teaching seems to have a lot in common with coordinating,” Thorin teases.  
  
Bilbo laughs. “Yes, I suppose in some ways, it does,” he says. “Although this coordinating tends to deal with higher society and let me tell you, it can be a headache.”  
  
“Most people from high society are a headache,” Thorin says jokingly. “I deal with them enough in my own work.”  
  
“I imagine you have to grin and bear it, though,” Bilbo says. “I get to tell them to fuck off if they want the privilege of working with Gandalf.”  
  
Thorin laughs. “I do occasionally get to say it myself,” he says with a smirk. “But only very occasionally.”  
  
“Good! People deserve it,” Bilbo says with gusto. “This is why I stay indoors with my cat as often as I can.”  
  
“Is he in London waiting for you to get home?”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo says as he fishes out his phone and opens his pictures. “His name is Smeagol. A very handsome fellow, you know.” He finds a good picture of his fluffy and yet somehow raggedy white-grey cat and hands his phone to Thorin.  
  
Thorin takes it and pauses, looking quite startled, before he clears his throat. “He’s…” he trails off, furrowing his brow. “Unique…?”  
  
Bilbo snickers with delight. “His eyes go in different directions and he’s got an underbite only I could love,” he says with a grin. “But I like the unique and the different. He’s rather grumpy, but I’m rather grumpy too, so I think we’re a good fit.”  
  
Thorin grins as he continues to look at Smeagol, then hands the phone back. “You’re unique as well, you know.”  
  
Bilbo tips his head back as he laughs. “Didn’t unique mean ugly a moment ago?” he asks as he wipes a tear from his eye, as Thorin begins to look mortified.  
  
“I didn’t mean- he _is_ handsome,” Thorin says, a nice blush on his cheeks. “Handsomely unique. Uniquely handsome? Like you.” He sighs. “This is going badly, isn’t it?”  
  
“It’s cute,” Bilbo says as he continues to giggle. “My father always said it’s the Baggins gene that made us unique and my mother used to tell him it’s what made us one of a kind, in the best of ways.”  
  
“They’re far wiser than I am then,” Thorin mutters, but he’s smiling. “You _are_ one one of a kind.”  
  
Bilbo shakes his finger. “You don’t know that.”  
  
“Yes, I do,” Thorin says, his eyes gone soft again, not aiding Bilbo’s sensibilities whatsoever. “I meet new people every day. I know the ones that are special and they’re hard to find in my line of work.”  
  
Bilbo sobers up a little and clears his throat, his cheeks hot. “Well,” he says breathlessly. “Well. Thank you then. I don’t particularly think I’m…” he trails off as Thorin raises his eyebrows warningly. “Thank you, Thorin.”  
  
Thorin smiles in satisfaction and pulls out his own phone. “I don’t have cats, but I have two boys that are more animals half the time than well-behaved children,” he says and flips through a few pictures. He hands his phone to Bilbo and Bilbo gently takes it.  
  
The picture is of two boys eagerly surrounding a chocolate cake, Khuzdul written on it, but the seven candles tells Bilbo it must have been the younger one, the brunet’s, birthday. He is an adorable little boy, all smiles, a few bottom teeth missing and his hair is in disarray, a smudge of chocolate across his cheek.  
  
The boy next to him is older, perhaps twelve, blond and blue-eyed. He’s smiling too, but it’s a mischievous smile, and Bilbo notices his hand is gripping his brother’s shirt so he doesn’t topple out of his chair or perhaps face first into his cake.  
  
Bilbo chuckles warmly. “This is the perfect moment to capture. They look incredibly happy. What sweet boys,” he says as he hands Thorin back his phone.  
  
Thorin squares his shoulders proudly as he nods. “They are,” he says. “I don’t have many pictures of myself this way. Their mother and I want them to have a childhood that’s… memorable, in a good way. That they deserve.” He hums. “They have many expectations put on their shoulders already and more schooling to worry about than average children. We want them to have the happiness we weren’t allowed.”  
  
“I think all good parents - and uncles - want that for the children in their lives,” Bilbo says with a soft smile. “To not make the mistakes of our parents and their parents before them.”  
  
There’s something haunted in Thorin’s eyes but he blinks and it’s gone as swiftly as it had come and he smiles at Bilbo again. “Their smiles here tell me their mother is accomplishing that.”  
  
“And you,” Bilbo reminds him.  
  
“I try,” Thorin says and sighs. “I worry I put too much pressure on them.”  
  
“I think it’s your position and their future positions that are putting pressure on them, which anyone would expect,” Bilbo says carefully. “But, I have a feeling, if you and your sister are anything alike, you’ll keep their health and wellbeing in mind above all else.”  
  
Thorin looks vulnerable again as he gazes at Bilbo, almost as if he doesn’t believe him, before his shoulders relax and he smiles faintly. “You’ve figured it out.”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo agrees apologetically. “But we can pretend I didn’t, if you’d like.”  
  
“I would,” Thorin says with eagerness. “If you bow, I rescind the offer for dinner. We can still have ice cream, but dinner would be off the table.”  
  
“Quite literally,” Bilbo says with a grin. “I curtsied to the Duchess of Sussex once. Gandalf hasn’t ever let me live it down.”  
  
Thorin laughs at that, smiling so painfully wide, his eyes bright and endlessly blue. “Please don’t curtsy to me either,” he says. “Perhaps a handshake at the end of the evening.”  
  
“I think I can manage that without making too much of a fool of myself,” Bilbo says as he pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles. “What did you have in mind for dinner?”  
  
Thorin opens his mouth, but the phone rings, and he holds up his finger as he answers it. He listens for a few minutes and grunts, “Good.” It seems he’s going to hang up but he pauses and frowns at whatever he is being told, before he murmurs, “I understand more than you know.”  
  
Bilbo’s stomach coils uncomfortably and he wonders if he’s being talked about, but decides that, for one night, he’s going to forget about that. This isn’t something that will go on beyond tonight and while that makes his heart ache, he knows the truth of it.  
  
Thorin is the King of Erebor. He has enough expectations for himself and his image to think about. It might seem like a fairytale, perhaps to both of them, but it can’t actually be one. Meeting the King in an elevator is the start of some very cheesy romantic comedies but this is real life and real life hurts. There will be no declarations of love, no grand surprises at the airport, no spring weddings.  
  
And Bilbo is alright with that. He’s alright with one night of wonder, he’s alright with a memory he will cherish, he’s alright with no more. He has to be.  
  
When Thorin hangs up the phone and looks at Bilbo, he sees the same thought in his eyes. They smile at each other and the agreement goes unspoken, the way it will remain.  
  
“I wish that I could sit in a restaurant with you,” Thorin says, “but if it’s alright with you, we can eat in my room. I have a good view of the mountains myself at the table.”  
  
“That sounds wonderful,” Bilbo says, not nearly as anxious as he knows he would normally be. There are still some butterflies there and his palms are sweaty, yes, but he also feels strangely… at peace.  
  
Another low _woosh_ goes through the elevator and it makes a few jumpy movements before it begins to move, continuing up to the second floor. Bilbo and Thorin stand, glancing at each other in surprise, as Thorin presses the button for the lobby floor. They both sigh in relief as the elevator steadily moves downwards and the doors chime open.  
  
There is quite a lot of movement suddenly as Thorin is whisked away into the hall by his security and the tallest one, who looks like a _Dwalin_ to Bilbo, is inspecting Thorin for… injuries, he supposes, while Thorin looks resigned to his fate.  
  
There are at least ten men in the hall and the elevators are being blocked off otherwise, and a few of them are eyeing Bilbo suspiciously, speaking into earpieces.  
  
At least Thorin is polite when he asks if Dwalin can frisk Bilbo, who is rather used to it from large events with heavy security, although it puts everything into perspective the way nothing else has yet. Life inside the elevator is dashed away and the cold reality of being in the presence of a king hits him squarely in the chest, a sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.  
  
But Thorin is there suddenly, concern in his eyes, and if his arm brushes against Bilbo’s, well… everyone sees it, he supposes. Warmth spreads from his heart and into his fingers and toes and he smiles, although it feels a bit wobbly.  
  
“I need to make sure Gandalf is alright,” he says. “Should I meet you in your room…?”  
  
“This is going to sound bad,” Thorin says, and hurries on as Bilbo frowns, “but Dwalin insists on checking your room before allowing you into mine. Then he will escort you to my suite.”  
  
Bilbo blinks for a while before he laughs. “I thought it was going to be worse than that,” he says honestly. “I don’t mind, it makes sense. So I’ll… see you shortly?”  
  
“Very shortly,” Thorin says sternly as he looks at Dwalin.  
  
Dwalin looks as if he has sucked on a particularly sour lemon but he nods once and gestures for Bilbo and another two of his guards to follow him to another elevator. Bilbo gives a quick wave at Thorin, who is watching him with worry again, as if he can’t quite believe Bilbo is real, or at least really allowing this to happen.  
  
He smiles to himself as they take the elevator to his floor and he hands over his room key to Dwalin. He calls Gandalf as he waits in the hall and is relieved to hear from him. Gandalf is safe and sound in another hotel on the opposite side of town with his clients and forgives Bilbo for not being able to make it, something knowing in his tone, though Bilbo refuses to tell him he’s got different plans now.  
  
Once Dwalin is done going through Bilbo’s things and feeling along the walls for… who knows what, he comes into the hallway and peers suspiciously down at Bilbo.  
  
“It’s not my place,” he grunts, “but I hope you know this is highly irregular.”  
  
“Oh, erm… well, I hope so,” Bilbo says, coughing as Dwalin narrows his eyes. “I know not to expect anything.”  
  
“Good,” Dwalin says, “he knows the same. Keep it that way.” He continues to eye Bilbo for a while. “I don’t trust you. Or Grey.”  
  
“Oh,” Bilbo says, quite unsure how to respond to that. “Alright?”  
  
“But,” Dwalin says sternly, then closes his eyes briefly, as if in great pain, _“he_ trusts you. For this one night only. Make the most of it.”  
  
He spins on his heel and strides off down the hallway and Bilbo hurries after him, biting his lip so he won’t grin too much.  
  
Bilbo isn’t altogether surprised that Thorin’s suite is on the top floor or that it takes up the entire top floor. The elevator requires a key for it and when the doors open, it’s a short but gorgeously decorated hall, with cream marble and two pillars on either side of two large, red doors. Dwalin opens it and ushers Bilbo inside and he notices that the other bodyguards stay outside.  
  
The suite is everything he would expect from this hotel, massive and decorated with rich fabrics and textures, paintings on the wall and bear and deer skin rugs throughout it. The main living area is sunken and there are numerous sofas and armchairs surrounding a television. That seems to be the hub of Thorin’s security detail, as they have their own personal monitors there, and seem to be hard at work.  
  
There is a large kitchen, decorated rustically, and he wonders how often it’s actually used in a hotel.  
  
The richness, the splendor, the opulence, these are all things he is used to. But it is still rather strange to be a guest in it, rather than the one that coordinated it, and he is highly aware of his rather lowly status compared to Thorin.  
  
But that temporary low mood is dashed away as Thorin steps into the room from a private dining area, the table just in view behind him, and Bilbo gazes at him. He’s not particularly starstruck, but he is certainly seeing stars.  
  
Thorin has taken off his suit jacket and is no longer wearing his tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and is wearing one of the most handsome smiles Bilbo has ever seen in his life.  
  
Dwalin mumbles something that doesn’t really sound polite and Thorin glares after him before huffing and holding out his hand in invitation.  
  
And Bilbo takes it, expecting to feel a warm hand, but what he feels is stability and something that snakes its way around his heart, constricting it, but _oh,_ not in a painful way. In a way that makes him feel protected, secured, in a way that makes him feel right. In a way that feels like home.  
  
Thorin leads him to a beautifully set table, even the napkins folded artfully on stacked plates, and Bilbo smiles to see Thorin not take the head seat, but the corner one, after pulling out a chair for Bilbo across from him.  
  
And if he seats himself and gazes at Thorin, thinking that making the most of it would require so much more time than he actually has, well, Thorin doesn’t have to know that. He will make due with what he has been given, this great gift, and he will not leave until he sees one last smile on Thorin’s face.  
  
They order food and conversation flows as easily as it had in the elevator, and Bilbo forgets that in another room there are many bodyguards. It’s easy to forget about most anything while he speaks with Thorin, and laughs at his dry humor and charm, and feels his heart warm with every grin. They dine on world-class food and Bilbo lets himself ramble on about food in general, lets himself _be_ himself, because Thorin looks as if he would like nothing better. And Thorin rambles about his family, an eagerness and boyishness to him, something that tells Bilbo he is very rarely free to be himself, to talk about whatever he’d like.  
  
The fact that he’s chosen Bilbo to do that with, to be that with, isn’t lost on him.  
  
The storm continues to rage outside and they miss the sunset, but the warm glow of the town below is still visible through the heavy flakes, and Bilbo thinks about forever, quite without meaning to.  
  
Thorin orders the brownie fudge sundae and a bottle of champagne, and Bilbo can do nothing more than laugh when it arrives, the dessert large enough to feed five, with plenty of hot fudge on the side, as it _seems like something Bilbo would like._  
  
The champagne flows freely between them and their smiles never quite leave them, even as the hours tick by and the storm settles and the moon, still hidden by thick, grey clouds, casts a pale light on the mountain tops. And when they stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows and their fingers intertwine, Bilbo wonders if Thorin thinks _forever_ too.  
  
And later, when Bilbo is in a warm embrace, Thorin’s lips brushing against his as he whispers, “Meet me in Erebor,” Bilbo has his answer.  
  
The beginning of their own personal fairytale, written in ink across their hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> [Erin](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/angelsallfire) and I headcanon that Smeagol looks exactly like [Wilfred Warrior](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/EbB92vXsE8M/hqdefault.jpg) :)
> 
> Please forgive any mistakes (and American terminology), I am very tired. Another modern royalty au! I'm a sucker for them. I have had an insanely horrible last two months health wise and I have barely been able to write, so this feels wonderful to get down, and I hope you find it as comforting to read as I did to write. I doubt there will be a part two but you never know!
> 
> Thank you very much to Erin, Birdy, and stardryad!
> 
> Kudos and comments mean everything. Thank you!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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